Basil and the Musicians
by The Grey Piper
Summary: A happy romp through the early days at Fawlty Towers! Basil again entertains some extraordinary guests: were the Sixties really like this? You may need to be over 30 to appreciate this! Thanks to the lovely CC Babcock for all her valauble help.


Basil and the Musicians

I

Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Somewhere a telephone was ringing. Basil Fawlty woke slowly, to surroundings which he did not immediately recognise. He shook his head. He did not see Sybil, his wife. He thought perhaps he had been drinking.

'Basil! Basil!' A baritone voice called his name. Dad! thought Basil, and the morning haze broke. Basil was visiting his father, at his boyhood home in Ipswich. He hadn't seen his father for two years, not since Mum had gone into the Home. He had been drinking last night, he now remembered.

Dad had been showing off his collection of single malt Scotch whiskies, and insisted on them sampling every one. It was quite a large collection.

'Basil! Telephone! It's the old trouble and strife!'

Basil winced. He didn't know why his father felt he had to employ the woefully lower-class rhyming slang of London's Cockneys. The family were not Londoners, not Cockney, and assuredly not lower class. He forced his brain to make the connection: trouble and strife rhymes with -- what? Wife.

Wife! Sybil on the phone.

Basil leapt from the bed, threw on a dressing gown, and raced downstairs to the parlour. 'Thanks, Dad,' he said grabbing the receiver. 'Good morning my love,' he said to his wife.

'It's afternoon, Basil, and you're just waking up?'

'I'm on holiday, Sybil darling. That means I'm allowed to sleep late. Is three days away too much to ask? Not that I don't miss you, my love,' he added hastily.

'I suppose that means you're allowed to stay up all hours getting soaked with your father, too, then,' Sybil retaliated.

'God, did you really call just for the chance to nag at me long-distance?'

Basil's hand flew to his mouth. He hadn't meant to say that out loud.

Thinking fast, he shouted 'Dad, turn the radio down, Sybil can't hear me over the racket!' Not a good save, he thought, but maybe she'll buy it.

'I'll ignore that, Basil, because there are much more important things afoot. You need to come back to the hotel right away.'

'It's burned down? Closed down by the Ministry of Health? Boycotted?'

'Basil, I sometimes can't tell when you're being so serious you're silly and when you're just being annoyingly silly. But it's none of those, so relax.

In fact, it's good news. Very good news. But I want you back, as soon as you can.'

Basil pondered. Good news could mean only one thing: guests, and a lot of them. The last few weeks had been terribly slow, what with the poor weather; this was the reason Basil had thought he might get away for a few days. No such luck, he thought.

'Dad, can you drive me down to the railroad station? Have to get back. Quite sorry.'

Mr Fawlty, Senior, shook his head. He looked, unsurprisingly, like an older version of his son: greying hair, face timeworn, stooped at the shoulders.

'Of course, son. Maybe you can come back in the autumn.'

'Hope so, Dad. I'll take just a minute to dress . . . .'

Basil Fawlty's short respite from managing Fawlty Tower's, an up-and-coming Torquay hotel, was over. He was home that night.

II

'Sorry to bring you back so rudely, Basil, but something really important is going on here. I've booked some guests.' Sybil Fawlty spoke tersely to her husband.

'Bravo. That's what we do. How many? Or did you need me back to help count them all?'

'Five.'

Basil nodded appreciatively. 'Splendid. More than we've had all month.'

This was an exaggeration, but Sybil let it pass.

'It's -- well -- it's how they want to book.'

'Stop talking nonsense, dear, if there's a problem, what is it?'

'They want to book the entire hotel for the weekend.'

Basil was baffled. What did she mean? 'The -- entire. . . ?'

'They want to have the whole place to themselves. No-one else.'

'That's absurd, Sybil! We only have three guests now, they're stopping for the whole weekend, and four more have made reservations already! Send this lot packing.'

'No, Basil. It's already a deal. The three here will be transferring over to Gleneagles to-morrow, and I've phoned the four reservations to help them find other lodging.'

Basil's face turned the colour of a well-cooked beet. 'You can't do that!' he screamed. 'You've just killed me! Killed the hotel! You -- you just can't do that!'

'I did, Basil, and I also signed a contract with their manager.'

'Manager? What manager?A _contract_?'

'It's some sort of musical group, Basil. Not sure who they are, but evidently they're rather popular.'

'God, not with me. You said you've actually signed a contract?' Basil felt he was on the verge of a stroke.

'Yes, dear, just a moment.' Sybil stepped back into the office, and brought out a document which she laid on the front desk.

'Umm -- excuse me -- Mrs Fawlty?'

Sybil looked up to see Polly Sherman, the new chambermaid. She had started at Fawlty Towers two months previously, replacing a girl named Elsie. Elsie had stormed off the job in the middle of dinner one evening, near nervous collapse, ranting about Basil, the waiter Manuel, the weather, and escaping to Canada while the escaping was good.

'Oh yes, Polly, I think that will be all for the evening. Thanks so much for staying late.'

Polly shuffled into the office to retrieve her jacket.

'"Who",' said Sybil.

'What?' asked Basil.

'Not "What", "Who".'

'Sybil, I'm in no mood for games. What's this musical group occupying us? The London Bach Quartet?'

'No, no, Basil, that's their name, as far as I can tell. "Who".'

Polly had emerged from the office. She dropped her jacket on the floor, along with her purse. Her lower jaw tried to follow. 'The Who? The Who!' Her jaw worked up and down a few times erratically. 'The Who!'

Sybil looked at Polly quizzically. 'Oh, you've heard of them?'

'Oh, Lord, yes, Mrs Fawlty! They're one of the biggest bands in the world right now!'

'I thought there's only the four or five of them,' said Basil.

'No, no, I mean big, like popular, fantastic, spectacular, rock band, Mr Fawlty!'

'Rock band? Like those . . . Biddles, or whatever they are?' Basil looked apprehensive.

'Yes, Mr Fawlty, and they're the greatest! Everywhere they go they . ..they . . . oh dear. Maybe this isn't good news, Mr Fawlty.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, they have a bit of a reputation, you might say. For . . . being rather . . .boisterous. You might say.'

'They're not going to be making all their crazy noises in here, at all hours of the night, are they?'

'Mr Fawlty -- you do have your hotel insured against damage, don't you? Because if even a fraction of what I've heard about them is true, you'll be lucky if Fawlty Towers is even standing by Monday morning.'

Basil resemblance to a beet returned. There was murder in his eyes as he turned to his wife. 'Sybil,' he growled.

Sybil eyed him curiously. 'Why don't you take a look at this contract before you get all worked up again, Basil?'

He snatched the sheaf of papers out of her hand, and began leafing through it frantically.

'Look down here, dear. This is what they're paying us, right off the top.' Her finger pointed at a line containing a series of figures.

Basil Fawlty's eyes began protruding from his purpling face. He looked at the series of figures again, still not believing. It was the sort of amount usually associated with speeches from opposition party MPs regarding cost overruns or budget shortfalls, with cries of 'Shame, shame!' in the background.

Basil counted the zeroes again. He began thinking of early retirement and villas on the Costa del Sol. 'My God,' was all he could say. He stood, still speechless, for a further minute.

Sybil gazed at him triumphantly. Suddenly, Basil swept his wife into his arms, and planted a tremendous kiss on her lips. 'You wonderful woman,' he said.

'Now, Basil, there are four of them, and their manager or agent or whoever that will be here. The manager will be here tomorrow afternoon, and the boys will be arriving late to-morrow, Friday morning, really, around three or four in the morning.'

'In the --' Basil sputtered, then looked at the contract again. 'Polly, can you be here that early? I'll be sure you get a bonus. From them.'

Sybil interrupted. 'They already have promised that, Basil. A hundred pounds each for Polly and Manuel for having to be up so early.'

Polly looked as though she was in shock. 'That will -- be fine, Mrs Fawlty. I'll be here. Good evening, Mr Fawlty, Mrs Fawlty.' She staggered toward the door, repeating 'The Who!' over and over to herself.

'Well, she seems to know who they are,' said Basil.

III

By Thursday afternoon, Fawlty Towers was empty of guests. At five in the afternoon, a single long, black limousine pulled into the car park. A man who called himself Phil introduced himself to the Fawltys, and offered further instructions and explanations.

'Now, you haven't talked to the press at all, have you? That is in the contract. Not until afterwards, at least. We try to keep arrivals low-key, for security reasons. Now, the boys will be arriving at about half past three in the A.M. They're flying in from America, and being driven down from London. Just finished the American leg of a tour. Now, as they'll be very tired, they'll be sleeping late. But I do want you to plan on giving them alarm calls for eleven A.M. on Friday morning. They're giving a concert at the seaside in the evening, you see, and I want them rested, but up and about early enough they can get lunch before doing a little practice in the afternoon. I think you'll find them charming guests. Now, I have to be out and about now, I'll be back late myself, but ring my room when they arrive, if you would. OK? Any questions? Good. I'm off.'

Basil and Sybil both had a lot of questions, but were actually somewhat intimidated by this man. They looked at each other and shrugged, as Phil breezed out as easily as he had breezed in.

IV

Basil and Sybil awoke to the alarm clock at three in the morning, Friday. They quickly dressed and went downstairs. Polly rapped at the door shortly thereafter. The three waited patiently.

Basil stared out into the darkness of Torquay. He could see a good way down the stretch of road to the north, and presently he noted a great deal of automobile lights headed for Fawlty Towers. 'They're coming!' he announced.

Fawlty Towers could have been a funeral home, by the number of long black limousines pulling into the drive. Two good-size lorries followed the limousines. Vehicles manoeuvred back and forth, ignoring carefully painted lines marking proper parking spaces.

'Call him! Call what's-his-name!' Basil ordered Polly.

A minute's breathless silence passed outside, then there was a slamming of car doors. Phil, the manager, staggered down the stairs.

Four young men, hardly more than boys, filed in to the reception lobby of Fawlty Towers. Despite having questionable hair styles, and badly needing shaves, the boys were reasonably well dressed. Each carried a single small suitcase. Polly was staring, gasping, near fainting.

Phil shuffled forward. 'Mr and Mrs Fawlty, meet Roger Daltry, Pete Townsend, John Entwistle, and Keith Moon.'

'Good morning,' said Basil and Sybil in unison. Polly was still gasping.

'A pleasure to meet you, sir, ma'am,' said Roger Daltry, raising his hat, and the other three echoed his sentiments.

'OK boys, I have to get the road crew moved down to that other dump. I'll see you guys tomorrow afternoon.'

'Thanks so much, Phil,' said John, and they all waved.

'Polly, would you please show the gentlemen their rooms?'

'Aaagghh...' was all Polly managed to reply, but she started walking toward the stairs.

'May we help you with your bags?' Basil inquired politely.

'Please! That's quite all right,' said Pete. 'No need to trouble yourselves any further on our account.'

'Quite right,' said Keith. 'You've done quite enough for us already, just being up for us at this ungodly hour. We'll manage just fine.'

Several minutes later, Polly staggered back down the stairs. 'I -- I can't believe it! It's really them!'

Basil eyed Sybil thoughtfully. 'Hmm,' he mused. 'They seem decent enough chaps after all.'

V

By quarter past eleven, the four young men sat in the dining room of Fawlty Towers. At their request, Polly had pushed four small tables together into a circle, where they could sit together without being crowded.

Manuel stood by to assist, but Basil himself handed them the luncheon menus. 'I do hope you'll find something to your pleasure, sirs. When you are ready . . . ', and he stepped unobtrusively nearby, order pad in hand.

'Yes, please, sir, I'll have the lamb curry.'

'Certainly, one lamb curry for . . . .'

'Do call me Pete, Mr Fawlty.'

'Pete, yes.'

'I'm Roger, Mr Fawlty. You don't have American style hamburgers, do you? I got quite fond of them on the tour over there, you know, they have this place called McDonald's everywhere. . . .'

'No, I'm afraid not, sir, but there is a place in the town that makes them. If you like, I'll have Polly pop down and get you some . . . .'

'Oh, dear, no, I don't like to be a bother. I'll have a lamb curry as well, then.'

Basil made a note on his order pad, smiling effusively.

'And you are . . . .'

'Keith, Mr Fawlty.'

'He's the bad boy, watch out for him,' said Roger, and they all chuckled.

'I'll have the fish and chips, please, Mr Fawlty,' said Keith.

'Just the roast beef sandwich for me, please. And call me John.'

Basil scribbled on his pad. 'Lunch will be just a few moments,' he said,

and delivered the order slip to the kitchen. When he returned, he asked, 'Would you like anything to drink before your meals arrive? We have a fine and extensive wine cellar, for your drinking pleasure.'

'Just a pot of tea for now, Mr Fawlty. We're really not much for drinking,' said Roger, and smiled sheepishly. 'Maybe a pint or two in the evening, but certainly not on a day we're performing.'

'Of course.'

Sybil, who had been following the proceedings from the kitchen, quickly had a pot of tea ready, and brought it to the tables, with four cups.

'Won't you join us, Mrs Fawlty?' offered Pete, jumping up and offering her his seat.

'Why thank you, yes.'

'Here, I see the teacups over there. I'll get one for you. Mr Fawlty, may I get a cup for you as well?'

'Oh, why, uhh, thank you, yes.' Basil pulled two extra chairs over. Soon the six were sipping tea.

'Touring like this can really be quite tiresome, you know,' said Pete. 'We're always glad to find a quiet spot like this to stay. Very homelike, you know.'

'I'll be very happy when we're done with this one,' offered Roger. He shook his head and ran his fingers through shoulder-length hair. 'Can hardly wait to get a proper haircut. But it's the image, you know, the fans expect it, and the manager says do it, so we do.'

'Me, I'll be glad to get a decent shave again,' chimed in Keith, scratching his furry cheeks. 'Itches like nobody's business, it does.'

'Still, it must be terribly exciting, seeing the world like you must,' countered Sybil. 'Was this your childhood dream, or something, travelling the world as musicians?'

'No, not really,' said Roger. 'Pete and myself, our dads kind of pushed us into it. They were big time jazz and swing musicians in the old days, and they wanted us to follow in their footsteps. Truth be told, I had always envisioned myself as entering the Church.'

'Oh, Church of England?'

'Of course! But Dad always had me running off to voice lessons, and instrument classes, you know -- I can play half a dozen instruments half-decent, and none too well, so I usually stick to the singing.'

'What about you, Pete?' Sybil continued.

'Well, like Roger said, same thing. My Dad gave me guitars for Christmas, for birthdays, for no occasion at all. I was pretty well driven into it.'

He paused and took a thoughtful swallow of tea. 'It's really just a job, I don't see any glamour to it. What always really fascinated me was numbers, and maths. You know, take a huge page of figures and add them up, and no matter how many times you do it, it's always the same answer. Very real, very solid, you know? I think sometimes that God intended me for a chartered accountant.'

'I always wanted to be a drummer,' offered Keith, the group's drummer. 'But what I really wanted was to be a drummer in one of the Highland Regiments' pipe bands.'

'Oh, dear,' said Sybil. 'What happened?'

'Couldn't pass the Army physical. Too short, and flat feet.'

'Well, at least you're drumming, aren't you? What about you, John? Is this what you wanted, or did you have other plans as well?'

John stared morosely at his cup of tea. 'I really don't know, Mrs Fawlty. I learned to play bass guitar as a hobby, and just sort of -- fell into it, I guess. I wonder sometimes where I might be if I wasn't here. Probably at university, I suppose. I always did enjoy school, at least.'

'So,' asked Sybil slyly. 'Do you boys have any special ladyfriends at home, waiting for you?'

All four grinned awkwardly, and looked at their teacups.

'It's very difficult trying to maintain anything like a meaningful relationship when you're travelling so much, Mrs Fawlty,' said Roger. 'I mean, there are usually two or three girls hanging around backstage when you 're done with the show, but not -- not nice girls, if you take my meaning Mrs Fawlty.'

Polly had emerged from the kitchen with the boys' meals, and was serving efficiently.

Roger continued, 'It really breaks my heart that there are so few good, wholesome young ladies to be found these days.' Roger shyly snuck a glance in Polly's direction, and blushed coyly. Polly favoured him with a demure smile, and he blushed even redder.

Polly finished setting the lunches before the boys. Keith's plate was hardly on the table before he had grabbed a piece of golden-brown, deep-fried codfish, and was aiming it toward his mouth.

'Keith!' Pete reprimanded.

'I told you he was the bad boy,' chuckled Roger.

Keith looked sheepish, and replaced the fish on his plate. All four then folded their hands, bowed their heads, and offered silent thanks.

'Amen,' said Roger, and the others responded with a heartfelt 'Amen!' in perfect three-part harmony.

'Also,' said Pete, continuing the previous topic, 'It's a dreadful feeling to always wonder whether the girl you're holding hands with is really interested in you, or is just after your money. We have managed to collect quite a fortune doing this, you know, and it's just so hard to tell the gold-diggers from the decent girls.'

'Well, it is nice having the money,' said John. 'After all, who knows how long we'll be able to keep this up? I mean, I can't imagine us still having material to put together a decent album after another five years, and I certainly can't see us touring and carrying on all those ridiculous stage antics when we're, say, forty. It's a good feeling to know that we could walk away from all this tomorrow, have enough money to provide for ourselves and our families for a very long time, and still have enough to invest in some worthwhile enterprises. You know, give back to the society that's been so good to us.'

'Hear, hear,' said Pete. 'I've already thought that I'd like to establish some sort of medical research foundation, to find cures for all different diseases. I mean, the Americans have just about whipped polio and smallpox, but there are so many more still out there. Measles, whooping cough, malaria, you name it.'

Keith said, 'I'd like to end up in New Zealand, with a sheep ranch, I think. Get back to a quiet, normal life, far away from all the madness. Maybe sponsor a programme to get underprivileged city kids out into nature, and really appreciate the natural wonder of God's world. Fly them from London, New York, Peking, all over the world, and spend a month, just watching the sheep and the sea.' He sighed, and there was a wistful look in his eye.

Roger spoke up. 'I'll tell you something that I'd like to do right away, lads. I think we should get out the message on the evils of illicit drug abuse.'

'What do you mean, Roger?' asked Keith.

'Well, I don't know if you have noticed this, but it seems like there have been quite a few kids at our concerts lately smoking -- marijuana.'

This statement drew the immediate attention of everyone in the room.

'Marijuana -- what's that?' asked Sybil.

Roger shook his head and appeared truly distressed. 'The devil's weed, Mrs Fawlty. A narcotic drug that can ruin the minds and rot the souls of the best and brightest people, once it has them in its clutches. Why, haven't you ever seen the notorious documentary, "Reefer Madness"?'

Keith stirred restlessly in his chair. 'You know Roger, I read an article in Time magazine, back in America, that maybe that stuff isn't so bad after all -- that it's maybe no worse than having a pint or two.'

Roger's eyebrows lifted inquisitively, and he directed a cool gaze at Keith Moon. 'Is there something you think you should be sharing with us, Keith?'

Keith shrank in his seat. 'No, Roger, no, of course not. I just -- wasn't thinking. Tired I guess.'

Roger smiled. 'It's OK, Keith. It's the end of the tour, and we're all a little on edge. But the thing about marijuana is that it can be just the beginning -- use of that awful substance leads inevitably to the use of much stronger, and much more dangerous drugs.'

'Like what?'

'Haven't you ever heard of -- cocaine?'

Keith scratched his head. "What's that?'

'It's this white stuff. You sniff it right up your nose.'

Keith had just salted his chips, and held the clear glass salt cellar in his hand. He jiggled the contents up and down, eyeing them sceptically. 'Pull the other one,' he said finally, setting down the salt.

John retrieved the salt cellar, and began salting his roast beef sandwich liberally.

'Easy with that, John,' said Pete. 'You know the doctor said it was bad for your heart.'

'Oh. Right,' said John Entwistle, and set the salt back down.

'And what about you, John, what would you like to do with yourself when all this is done?' Sybil persisted.

John stared moodily at his over-salted sandwich. 'I don't know. I think maybe, like I sort of said before, I'd like to go back to school. Get into a good university. Study --' His face lit up. 'You know what I'd really like to do? I'd love to study the lives of some of the great architects. You know, Sir Christopher Wren, Michelangelo -- it's just fascinating, to think that a man's mind could conceive of something like St Paul's, or the Sistine Chapel, and then, actually build it! It just boggles my mind to consider it. And maybe then -- maybe I could study architecture itself. I'd love to think that I could build a cathedral, or a beautiful new bridge across the Thames; that people would come from all over the world, just to look and point, and say, "There's the bridge that John Entwistle built." '

He looked down at the table suddenly and bit his lip. 'I really am a dreamer, aren't I, Mrs Fawlty?'

'Now, now, we all must live for our dreams, isn't that right, Basil?' Basil smiled and nodded. He kept thinking of the amazing number in that contract, and that his own dream was coming true before his eyes.

A moment's awkward silence passed, as the four boys reflected on the mysterious paths their lives had taken to lead them to this table in Torquay, and where those paths might yet lead them.

Basil broke the silence. Curiosity had gotten the better of him. 'So what kind of songs do you lads do?'

Roger spoke. 'Well, sir, one of our first big songs was called "My Generation". Sort of a youth anthem.' He tipped his head back, and started singing a few phrases. ' "People try to put us down --" '

' "Talkin' 'bout my generation -- " ' chimed in Pete.

John beat a light staccato on the table with his fingertips, while Keith used his knife and fork to beat imaginary drums. ' "Don't try to dig what we all s-s-ssayyyy --" and so on. Not profound, but rather fun.'

'Nothing to be ashamed of, lads, music should be fun. Take people's minds off their worries,' offered Basil.

'Well, yes,' said Pete thoughtfully. 'But you know, it also seems to me that music like ours has the potential to do some real good in the world.'

'How do you mean?' asked Basil.

'For example, over in America, there are quite a few people talking about a nasty little war started up over in some place called Viet-Nam. It might be a good thing for us to talk about that in our songs, you know? Get people involved in what's really going on in the world, take an interest in important issues. I mean, a lot of people in America don't really take the Communist threat seriously any more. And on the other hand, they disregard some of the really negative consequences of war on a nation. Right, Roger?'

Roger Daltry furrowed his brow in thought. 'True enough, Pete. That is to say, my own view, I don't think war is ever a good thing, but sometimes war may be a necessary thing after all. I mean look at World War Two. Millions dead all over the world, but even that was preferable to the consequences of _not_ fighting. This business in Viet-Nam may be a similar, though smaller, case. And in the absence of reliable evidence to the contrary, I think the Americans are entitled to trust the judgement of their government that the war is a necessary evil.'

'Absolutely,' affirmed John. 'You really get into dangerous waters when you start making protest-type music. I mean, honest political dissent is the right of free citizens wherever they live, but subverting legitimate, elected government is just wrong.'

'Music, like any other art form, can be a potent force for either stability, or for turmoil,' opined Keith. 'I'm sure you're aware, Mr Fawlty, that that was one of the main themes of Plato's Republic. It's ironic, you know, that despite the name, and its status as a landmark of Western political thought, Plato's "ideal society" bore more resemblance to those powers we defeated in World War Two than to our own modern democratic institutions.'

'Oh dear,' said John. 'Keith's off on Plato again! Careful, Mr Fawlty, he'll ramble on for hours about Plato if you let him.'

'Really, John, I'm trying to make a point here, just that the citizens of Plato's Republic were to be indoctrinated from infancy with literary and religious propaganda glorifying their own way of life, and that included the songs people would have. The idea of music's power is ancient; it didn't start with that dreadful Bob Dylan character.'

'Point taken, Keith.'

'Thank you, John. But by the by, Mr Fawlty, have you ever read Plato? Just brilliant! The Republic, Critias, just stunning. And of course the Socratic Dialogues. Why --' He stopped, as the three other bandsmen put their heads in their hands and groaned. 'Don't mind those ignorant rabble, Mr Fawlty, I just wanted to ask if you'd ever read at least his account of the death of Socrates. No? Oh my. Socrates has been given the hemlock, you see, and his friends must help him walk back and forth, until the poison has so numbed his legs he can't move them at all. He lies down, and the executioner keeps prodding him, testing for sensation, and when the numbness finally reaches his heart, of course that's when --' Keith stopped abruptly, unable to speak any more. One hand covered his eyes and nose. A muffled sob emerged from under the hand. 'I'm sorry, everyone. It's just so, so --'

'There, there, now, we all understand, I'm sure,' Sybil Fawlty soothed.

'Yes, brilliant man, Socrates, familiar with the story of course,' fumbled Basil. 'Man like that, got to wonder what his last words might have been.'

Keith raised his head, and looked Basil in the eye. ' "I owe a cock to Asclepius," ' quoted Keith.

'I beg your pardon?' asked Basil.

'Socrates' last words,' replied Keith. ' "Crito, I owe a cock to Asclepius; will you remember to pay the debt?" '

Basil frowned. 'Not really what one would expect from a chap like that, is it? Not terribly inspiring.'

'Think, though, Mr Fawlty. With his last breath, his last dying wish, he wanted to make sure that he left this world owing nothing to any other man, not even as much as a single chicken. It really is most profound, when you think of it.'

'I'm sure,' replied Basil uncertainly.

'Well,' said Roger, 'That was a lovely lunch, but we really must go on upstairs and get a little practice in.'

'Right,' said Pete. 'There's a new number we're doing, and the third measure has a minor G7 chord that melts away into a very staccato arpeggio sequence, and it's difficult getting it just right with my "windmill" stroke while meeting John's sub-tone harmonics on the bass exactly on the upbeat.

Good half-hour or so should fine it up nicely, though.'

'Promise not to be too loud, Mr Fawlty,' assured Roger. He grinned at Keith. 'No explosions in the house, you.'

Basil's eyes widened. 'Explosions? Surely you're joking.'

'Only for the stage act, Mr Fawlty. It's a neat little gimmick we fell into by accident. We'd used just a simple fireworks show to end the performance, then one night, something went wrong, a skyrocket went the wrong way, knocked a big something-or-other over, and the whole lot shot right into my bass drum. Ka-boom! There were cymbals and drumheads flying everywhere, and a spectacular shower of purple sparks shooting out the snare. Well, the fans went wild! Thought it was part of the show, so since then we've added it in. Little more control on the ignitions, though.'

Basil frowned. 'Seems it could get rather expensive in drums.'

'Well, it's all deductible as a business expense, and it keeps the drum-makers working, you know? Besides, you should see the bill for Pete's guitars. Smashes two or three every night.'

Sybil and Basil looked at each other. 'You mean, smashes them on purpose?' queried Sybil.

Pete looked embarrassed. 'Yeah, well, it's the same showmanship thing, you see. Really the same, it started by accident. I was having trouble one night with a broken string, so I'd waved to one of the roadies in the wings to bring me out a fresh guitar, rather than try to restring in the middle of the show. Well, I trotted for the wings, tripped over a cable, went flying face-first for the stage. Only thing I could do was try to break my fall with the old Stratocaster, it shattered on the floor, the impact sent me spinning like a whirling dervish, and the thing flew out my hands into the audience. They loved it! The manager's been having me do it every show since, three or four times a night at least. Really sad, you know. Those are quality hand-made guitars, not mass-produced rubbish. All I think of is some poor soul's spent weeks, months making a guitar, then along comes Pete, plays the thing for ten minutes, and smashes it to matchsticks. Where's the sense in that?'

'Extraordinary,' said Basil. He looked around. 'Sybil, do you here a noise? Sort of a . . . roaring, shouting, noise?'

The musicians looked up. 'Oh dear,' said John. 'I'm afraid that may have something to do with us.'

Basil and Sybil Fawlty bolted for the lobby, the four boys close behind.

'Good Lord,' said Sybil, looking out the windows.

The band lorries had parked across the entrance to Fawlty Towers, which discouraged the closer approach of the crowds outside. There appeared to be two distinct groups. One group consisted of younger people and carried signs bearing legends such as 'We love U Roger!' and 'Who Who Who' The other group carried signs such as 'Torquay Council For Decency' and 'No Hairy Hippies Here!'

'Oh dear,' said Roger. 'Mr Fawlty, would you mind terribly if we threw some things out the windows?'

'I'm sorry?' piped up Sybil.

'Terribly sorry, Mrs Fawlty, but yes. You know what I was saying before about the image and all . . . . If I could just drop a guitar or a small amplifier into the car park . . . maybe just a chair or two . . . .Oh we'll be certain you'll be more than compensated for any damage,' Roger assured the Fawltys, as Basil began sputtering at the mention of chairs falling out windows.

Sybil and Basil exchanged a long, doubtful look. 'Don't forget the contract, Basil,' Sybil murmured.

'Ah, yes, the contract. Well, gentleman, as long as you don't get carried away, of course. Just a few things, now. Please keep in mind that I too have an image to maintain here in Torquay, and I'll be stuck here long after you lot and your fans are gone.'

The four looked at the floor. 'We understand, sir,' said John. 'I promise we'll be careful with your hotel.'

'Right, off you go then,' said Basil, and The Who darted up the stairs. A short time later, drums and amplified guitar music were emanating from the upper floors.

Suddenly, anamplifier the size of a wardrobe crashed down into the middle of the car park. A roar went up from the fans; booing was the response of the Torquay Council for Decency. Another of the wardrobe-sizedamplifiers crashed down on top of the first, completing its demolition. Bits of both flew around the car park; cheers and boos intensified.

An especially loud burst of guitar noise poured out the upper windows and into the street, further encouraging the commotion in the road. A handful of drumsticks flew quite a ways, and managed to slide of the tops of the lorries blocking the drive, and on into the crowd as souvenirs.

Keith came trotting down the stairs. 'Mr Fawlty, you might want to go ahead and ring the police, and have them start trying to disperse the fans. They're well out into the street where they're liable to either block traffic or get injured by a careless driver.' Keith trotted back up the stairs. As Basil turned, Sybil was already on the telephone.

Basil stood in the open door and stood, hands on hips, surveying his domain, and the confused tide lapping at its shores. Two chairs dropped down together, smashing into firewood. Basil cocked an irritable skyward: Who-ward, more precisely. 'That's your quota for chairs, you know!' he shouted, only slightly perturbed. He felt that regardless, he needed to stand firmly in command.

'Sorry!' drifted down a voice. A single small pillow fell on his head, harmlessly.

'Keith did that!' the voice now said.

'Oh, no I didn't!' one voice called down.

'Oh, yes you did!' three voices responded merrily.

Basil scratched his head and tossed the pillow inside, onto the counter.

Outside, the warble of police sirens was audible, and bobbies were urging the gathered throng to be on their many ways.

From upstairs, subdued rock music floated down the stairs: not entirely unobtrusively, but as nearly so as the loudest rock band in the world could manage.

Basil and Sybil withdrew to the kitchen to salvage some lunch for themselves. Sybil had a few bites of the fish and chips, while Basil finished up the curry. Vince, the cook, sat outside in the garden with a cigar, relaxing. Polly and Manuel were in the small staff room with tea and telly.

Basil and Sybil eyed each other over their impromptu lunch, standing in the kitchen. 'Sybil', announced Basil. 'Well done. This . . . "Who" bunch. Seem like quite a nice bunch for modern kids. Looks like we'll be pretty well set if this all goes off as it should.'

'Now Basil,' replied his wife. 'I know it's a lot of money, and I know that's what you're talking about. Hear me out. I think what we should do is pay off the mortgage first, then take a very small part of the balance and use it to fix up the hotel, do all those things you've been talking about for so long, that we've never been able to afford. You know, have a landscaper fix up the garden with some pretty trees, and a fountain, and a nice little wall, get all that old plumbing and wiring updated, put that kitchen door through, redecorate the rooms, and maybe even replace all the furniture with nice new things. Some of those beds are dreadfully old and lumpy, love. Then put all the rest of it away, safe in the bank, waiting for us and our. . . golden years.'

Basil looked as though he wanted to protest. A feeble, 'Well . . . .' was all he managed.

'Now Basil. I know you like a book. You want to get into that money, spend like a drunken lord, and forget about the hotel. I think we can take a very good lesson from those four boys. Think, Basil! The fortunes they must command -- and how concerned they were with the responsible use of their money. How they were so keen on being finished with being celebrities, and getting back to a simple, meaningful life. Don't let this money spoil us, Basil. Think how grateful little Keith up there would be to trade places with you, and be glad you're not in his shoes.'

'But Sybil --'

'But nothing, Basil. You'd let that money ruin you in a year if I let you had your way. The hotel would be an empty ruin, you'd be penniless at the racetrack, and I'd be scrapingshillings together to pay the electric bill. No Basil. That money is going to be used sensibly.'

Basil admitted to himself that Sybil was right. Without the hotel, without that purpose in his life, even a better man than he could be seduced to the life of the wealthy wastrel, the Dickensian well-to-do ne'er-do-well. 'Could we at least have a proper holiday? Actually no, not a proper holiday. One magnificent holiday, a once-in-a-lifetime getaway, see India, Australia, America, all the places we'll probably never see otherwise. A-- a late honeymoon, if you like.' Basil held his breath. That had been one of his few regrets, that he had never been able to take his bride on a proper honeymoon. He had always felt somehow inadequate, that he had failed her, and was determined to do right by her.

Sybil considered this. 'All right Basil, but that will be our one extravagance. Aside from that, it's all business.' She maintained a stern look on her face, but inwardly was quite pleased. She was really quite flattered that after so many years of marriage, her husband was still so romantic as to offer a honeymoon. She pushed the remaining bite of fried fish into her mouth, and began laughing. All in all, she thought, I'm really quite happy. Basil looked at her quizzically. 'I love you, Basil,' was all she said, as the tight harmonies of 'Magic Bus' floated down the stairs.

VI

Early evening. Practice had wrapped. Phil, the manager, entered, and immediately began calling for the band. The four boys hurried down the stairs.

'Right, lads, let's head on over. Sound checks, costumes, the works. I'll get some Chinese takeaway for dinner for us.'

'Oh dear,' said Sybil. 'Are you not going to have dinner with us then?'

' 'Fraid not, Mrs Fawlty,' Phil asserted. 'Show starts at eight. The stage is set up, of course, that's what I been up to. Need to have the boys over nice and early though. There's a million things that can go wrong and none of them are pretty, and you'll never know about them until you're actually on the stage working, so out the door lads, get in the cars now, time is money or something, and it's wasting away.'

'Phil?' asked John Entwistle. 'Comps? For our hosts?'

'Oh. Right. Yeah.' Phil reached into his briefcase and pulled out a pair of complimentary tickets. He handed them to Basil.

'Phil?' repeated John. 'Five. Manuel, Polly, and Vince.' His eyes locked with Phil's for just a moment, and he repeated, 'Five, Phil.'

Phil glared ever so briefly, then pulled three more tickets from his case and handed them over. 'May we please go now, boys?' he asked, just a slight edge hardening his voice.

They began to file out, and Pete paused to speak with Basil. 'I know you may not be a fan of ours, but I know that Polly and Vince are, Mr Fawlty, so I do hope you'll allow them to come on to the show. As for yourselves --' He paused, and looked out the window, in the direction of the seaside. 'As for yourselves, you'll probably be able to hear quite well enough from the front steps, or the upstairs windows, anyway. And if you fancy what you hear, please do come on down to the show.'

Basil's eyebrows headed for the ceiling. 'Did you say we'd hear you from here?'

Pete grinned. 'Oh yes, Mr Fawlty. Didn't I mention, we _are_ the loudest band in the world. And there's one big amplifier pointed just this way.'

He shook Basil's hand warmly. 'And if you find it's too much, there's a Bentley outside with the key under the seat. Have a nice drive for a while. Just don't get caught in the end-of-show traffic.'

Basil smiled crookedly. 'We'll do our best to appreciate your musical stylings, I'm sure.'

Sybil said, 'Of course we'll walk down to see your show, boys. It would be terribly rude of us not to, wouldn't it, Basil?'

'I wouldn't go that far,' muttered Basil to his wife.

'Shh, dear. Well, boys, get out there and do your best, and I'm sure your audience will appreciate it.'

'Right,' said Phil. 'Come on now lads, time to go to work.'

The bandsmen followed Phil on out to the waiting limousines. Basil and Sybil watched them go, and walked back in to the hotel.

Sybil scurried around giving tickets to their three employees, and allowed them to leave for the day.

Sybil found Basil in the office. He was listening, somewhat defiantly, Sybil thought, to a Brahms symphony on the gramophone. She lifted the needle, set the arm carefully on its rest, and switched off the machine.

Basil scowled.

'I have an idea, Basil. Let's get a bite to eat in the kitchen, and take a little drive.'

'A drive?'

'I've never been in a Bentley, before, have you?'

'No. Now that I think of it, no.' He stood and stretched, a faint smile traced on his usually sombre face. 'Bit of a treat, really.' Basil suddenly pulled his wife to him, and wrapped his arms around her in a warm embrace. 'This is a most unusual weekend, after all.'

After eating, they stood on the steps outside Fawlty Towers. Basil turned and locked the front doors. 'Amazing,' he stated. 'For the first time in seven years, the hotel will be completely empty. Deserted. Not even us. And I'm happy about it.'

Sybil smiled. It wasn't often her husband admitted to happiness. 'I'm happy you're happy, dear,' she replied.

Basil and Sybil Fawlty took quite a long drive into the countryside that evening, away from the quaint seaside, away from the famous tourist views, away from the town. They stopped and parked from time to time, to wander around and look at plain, ordinary things: sheep in a meadow, a calm brook, a stand of willows.

They sat and relaxed against one large old willow, listening to the birds, the breeze in the treetops, small creatures scurrying in the brush.

'We really should do this more often, Basil,' Sybil sighed.

Basil reached over and took his wife's hand in his own. 'Let's make a point of it, what? Once a month or so, just let the hotel run itself for a few hours.' And not running off on my own to Dad's, he silently chastised himself.

The two shifted closer together, backs against the rough tree trunk, holding hands. Sybil laid her head against Basil's shoulder, and presently Basil heard her breathing the soft, regular rhythm of sleep. He smiled, closed his eyes, and allowed himself to doze carelessly: for a short while, at least.

VII

Sunday morning found Fawlty Towers again staffed, occupied, and operational.

Polly approached Sybil. 'I let them in last night, Mrs Fawlty. They were quite exhausted, so I asked them into the bar and they all had a pint before going on up to their rooms. I hope that's all right.'

'Quite all right, Polly, but maybe you'd best not mention it to Basil. He can be funny about things like that, especially as it would have been after hours. Never mind we weren't open to the public anyway.'

'And the boys are supposed to get an eleven o'clock alarm call again. Phil is here too. Oh, look at the time, I'll go do it now.'

Basil found his way downstairs shortly after, more pleasant than usual, and with a faint smile still on his face.

Vince made late breakfast for all, and a little after noon, farewells were being made in the lobby.

Keith stepped forward. 'Mr Fawlty, Mrs Fawlty, on behalf of the lads and myself, I'd like to thank you very sincerely for your hospitality. You've made us feel so very much at home, and that's a precious thing to find on the road. Mrs Fawlty, especially, you -- you're the best mum a lad could have, apart from his own!' Moved by his deep sentiment, Keith Moon stumbled forward and threw his arms around Sybil in gratitude. 'Thanks so much!' he exclaimed, with a catch in his throat.

Sybil returned his fond hug, and patted his head warmly.

'Poor old Keith, all choked up again,' grinned Pete.

John Entwistle reached out and shook Basil Fawlty by the hand. 'Really, sir, we do appreciate your kindness ever so much. I know there's a lot of rough talk out there these days about generation gaps and such, but speaking for myself, I have tremendous respect for a man such as yourself, and all that you and your generation have done to make Britain what she is: truly a land of hope and glory, and a precious legacy for my generation.'

'Hear, hear!' seconded Pete Townsend, who then lilted, 'Talkin' 'bout my generation!'

'Nothing I can add to that except my own personal thanks to you all,' said Roger Daltry. 'Mr Fawlty, Mrs Fawlty, Manuel, Vince, and you especially, Miss Sherman, for working so hard for us.'

'Oh, it was nothing, Mr Daltry,' Polly cooed. 'Only doing my job. I've taken care of far more guests than you, and much more difficult ones.'

'I -- I made sure the lads all tidied their rooms before we came downstairs this morning. Made up the beds and all.'

'How sweet of you!' said Polly, looking away. 'How silly, too! You know very well I'll be changing all the linens and making them up again anyway. But very kind of you, anyway, Mr Daltry.'

'Please, call me Roger.'

'Thank you, Roger. And do call me Polly.'

'Thank you, Miss Polly.' Roger seemed hesitant, and kicked the floor nervously with one foot. 'Miss Polly --'

'Yes, Roger?'

'Miss Polly, this tour will be over in another week or so now, and I was wondering, if, when we're done, in another week or so --'

'Yes, Roger?'

'-- if it would be all right if I were to call on you here?' he blurted.

Roger's cheeks reddened visibly and he looked away.

'Why, that would be lovely, thank you! I'd be delighted, of course.' Polly's cheeks, in turn, also reddened, as she gazed demurely at her feet.

'Oh, thank you so much, Miss Polly!'

'Just plain "Polly" is fine, Roger,' she murmured.

'Polly, yes, Polly, we could go for dinner in town, if you like, or if you're especially daring, we could fly to Paris, or Vienna, or New York . . . .'

'Just in town would be fine for a first . . . dinner, Roger. Anywhere else and I'd have to take far too much time off from work, you see.'

'Oh, of course, sorry. Oh, and if that's all right with you, of course, Mr Fawlty.'

'Hmm? Oh, yes, certainly. I'm only her employer, not her father.'

'Thanks so much, in any case.'

Phil stood tapping his foot impatiently. 'All right boys, let's get this show on the road, and it's not a figure of speech when I use it, right? Mr Fawlty, this is for you.' He handed Basil Fawlty a brown envelope. Basil lifted the flap and peered inside. Inside was a certified bank cheque bearing the numbers that had staggered him so just two days ago.

'Gentlemen, any time Fawlty Towers can accommodate you again, we would be more than delighted. And if any of you find yourselves on your own in town and needing a place, I'd be delighted to have you here as -- as my treat.' Basil winked significantly at Roger, as Phil shooed him and the others out the door.

Sybil started, stunned. Never had she heard Basil offer free lodging to anyone before.

Basil and Sybil stood outside the front doors of Fawlty Towers and watched as the limousines and lorries full of equipment drove away. Sybil slipped her hand into Basil's, and squeezed affectionately.

'You know, Basil, you do hear so much about the young people today, all sorts of dreadful things, but if those four are any indication, I'd say the future of Britain is safe in their hands, wouldn't you?'

Basil watched as the last vehicle rolled out the gate and into the street.

He nodded thoughtfully in agreement. 'Those kids are all right,' said Basil Fawlty.


End file.
